


To a Better World

by LadyPug



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Memory Erasing Gun, Parallel Fiddleford, Parallel Stanford, better world au, institute of oddology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 14:02:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10248044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyPug/pseuds/LadyPug
Summary: Fiddleford McGucket has only ever wanted to make the world a better place. Seeming to be stuck between a rock and a hard place, he comes to a decision that changes his fate, the fate of his closest friend, and the fate of the world as he knows it. But as the world changes for the better, he can't help but wonder if he has made the right choice.





	

Fiddleford arrived at the diner much earlier than the agreed upon time because he felt he needed the extra time to prepare for his talk with Stanford. He took his seat at a booth; his knee was already beginning to bounce, and he had to force himself to take his hand out of his hair twice before the waitress showed up.

“Hey, you. Long time no see. Fiddle, right?” The waitress had a wide smile and wore cat earrings, but she didn't seem all that familiar to him.

Fiddleford's brow furrowed. Had he been here before? He shot the waitress a small, nervous smile. “Fiddleford,” he corrected. “Nice to, uh, see ya again?”

“Oh, that's right! Fiddleford! So, what can I get you today? Our special today is the Everything Soup. It's got everything in it, including some stuff we found in the kitchen sink this morning-”

Although the Everything Soup sounded pretty good to him, it would've been rude to start eating dinner without Stanford, and he wasn't all that hungry at the moment, anyway. He shook his head. “No, thank ya kindly. Just some coffee for right now would be fine.”

“You got it! I'll get you a cup in a minute, and you let me know if you need anything else.” The waitress sauntered away, presumably to pour him some coffee. 

Fiddleford sighed and put his hands through his hair again. Tomorrow, they were going to test the portal. If he was going to put a stop to it, he had to try and get through to Stanford. It wasn't as if he hadn't been trying, but now, he only had a last ditch effort to rely on. The thesis paper tucked away in his jacket felt heavy. His shoulders felt heavy, too, as if the fate of the world rested on them.

He pulled a napkin from the napkin holder and pulled a pen from his pocket. He started to sketch a diagram, the very same one that he had drawn in his motel room.

_Probability of Failure._

If his calculations were correct, then the fate of the world might very well rely on his ability to sway his closest and dearest friend not to go through with the test. He must have rehearsed the conversation a thousand times in his head. He had to be convincing. He just had to be...

His knee continued to bounce. But what if he wasn't? What then? It wasn't as if there was any way he could stop Stanford from testing the portal. Even if he quit right then and there, Stanford was smart enough to be able to start it up all on his own. 

His thoughts turned toward the memory-erasing gun he had built. Perhaps he COULD stop Stanford. Fiddleford felt his stomach sink for a moment at the thought. He wasn't sure if he could do that. Sure, he had erased Stanford's memory before on a few separate occasions, but it was to keep him from interfering with his use of the memory-erasing gun. Stanford had brought up good points about how dangerous it could be if it fell in the wrong hands, but Fiddleford was using it to help other people with their bad memories and to keep the portal a secret. And probably help himself with any bad memories, too. He was using it for good reasons, and it wasn't his fault that Stanford couldn't see that.

The thought of using it to actively manipulate Stanford into doing what he wanted, though, that was much harder to rationalize. Even if it was for the greater good, completely overriding or even just outright erasing someone's free will... and not just someone, but his closest friend... could he really do that? Could he really call himself Stanford's friend if he did such a thing to him? Not to mention, it might not be one of those things he could just forget about afterwards. Stanford had to have come to the conclusion about building the portal somehow. What's to say even after his memory was erased that he wouldn't come to the same conclusion later? If Fiddleford didn't have his own memory intact, maybe he wouldn't stop it the next time around. 

“Coffee for you,” the waitress said, setting down his coffee on the table.

Fiddleford snapped out of his own thoughts and managed another smile at her. “Thank you.”

“Enjoy it. Everything okay? You're looking kind of worried,” the waitress said, showing some concern. She glanced around a moment, then lowered her voice. “You didn't see our outdated health and food safety inspection certificate, did you?”

Fiddleford sighed and forced his hands out of his hair and onto the table. “I'm fine. Thank you for your concern. I just have a lot on my-” He paused a moment; her words sinking in. “Wait, what?”

The waitress stiffened and forced a big smile. “Nothing! I was just checking to make sure you're all right! Enjoy your coffee!” She backed away a few steps, then quickly left his table.

Fiddleford stared after her a moment, then he focused on putting cream and sugar in his coffee. A moment later, Stanford walked into the diner. Quickly, Fiddleford pulled the napkin with the diagram on it out of sight, and he greeted his friend with a somewhat strained smile. Stanford returned his smile; though, it seemed slightly more genuine. He slid into the booth. 

“Sorry, I'm a little late. I was just making a few minor adjustments on the project and lost track of time,” Stanford told him. 

Fiddleford had completely lost track of time while immersed in his thoughts. “Oh. Don't ya worry about it none. I wasn't waitin' long.” 

That was a lie, of course, since he had arrived at the diner much earlier than he was supposed to. He looked over Stanford a moment; his gaze settling on Stanford's still-red eye. Stanford had claimed it to be the result of an infection of some kind, but Fiddleford was unconvinced.

“How's your eye doin'?” he asked, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Fine, fine,” Stanford said, in that dismissive, nonchalant way he always did. He paused a moment, noticing an opossum scurry across the floor of the diner. He glanced back at Fiddleford. “This is an... interesting place you picked out, Fiddleford. I'm not sure I would have trusted a place called Greasy's Diner. It sounds... questionable.”

Fiddleford felt a little relieved that it seemed like he wouldn't have to get into what would no doubt be a difficult conversation right away. He smiled a little. “I dunno. Small-town place like this seems quaint and charmin'. Besides, I thought it might be nice to try some local cuisine, ya know?” 

Stanford gave him a skeptical look and seemed about to comment when the waitress stopped by the table with a couple of menus in her arm. “Oh, is this your friend? I don't think I've seen him around here before.” 

Fiddleford noticed Stanford had already stuck his hands under the table, probably in an effort to avoid having to deal with someone commenting on them. He gave a nod. “Yep, this here is-”

“Dr. Stanford Pines,” Stanford said quickly. “I, uh, don't get out much.”

“Oh! A doctor! Oh, wait! Are you that scientist that lives up in that shack in the woods? I've heard some crazy things about that place. I'd do anything to find out what you get up to in there,” the waitress said, a hint of awe and wonder in her voice.

Stanford glanced at Fiddleford questioningly. Fiddleford shrugged his shoulders. Although, he interacted with the locals a little more frequently than Stanford did, he had kept himself tied up in work, too. He had no idea what rumors might be circulating around.

“There's nothing interesting or crazy about what I do, and the shack isn't open to visitors. We'll call you over when we're ready to order,” Stanford told her as she was setting down the menus.

She frowned at Stanford, then walked off.

Fiddleford frowned at Stanford, too; though, the man had already taken to browsing through the menu and wasn't able to see his disapproval.

“Now, Stanford, that wasn't very nice of ya. She was just curious.”

“What else was I supposed to say? We have to preserve the secrecy of our project until we're ready to share it with the world. To do otherwise could mean risking everything we've worked for,” Stanford said, in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Well, yes, but ya didn't have to be so short with her about it.”

“She'll get over it,” Stanford said, not even looking up from the menu. “Ugh, do they serve anything here that wouldn't be swimming in grease?” 

Fiddleford shook his head, taking a menu for himself. “Well, it is called Greasy's Diner.”

Stanford looked over the top of the menu at Fiddleford. “When you're right, you're right. Next time, I'm picking the place.”

Fiddleford raised an eyebrow. “You? Stanford, if ya had your way, we wouldn't actually go anywhere. You'd just have me cooking for ya at the shack.”

Stanford looked as if he was trying not to smile. “Would you rather I cook instead?”

“Heavens no!” Fiddleford tried to resist smiling himself. “The last time ya tried cookin' ya darn well almost made ashes of all of us.”

“I was trying to be efficient,” Stanford said.

“If by efficient ya mean tryin' to set fire to everything in a 10-mile radius, then yes. Ya couldn't have gotten much more efficient unless ya actually succeeded in doing that,” Fiddleford told him.

Then, he was unable to help himself and a chuckle escaped his lips. Stanford started chuckling, too. Fiddleford enjoyed these little moments when they weren't talking about the portal. It reminded him of how things used to be when they were in college. It reminded him that, no matter what happened, Stanford was still his friend. That knowledge gave him some small amount of comfort, and he felt some of the tension in his shoulders ease up. They lapsed into a short but comfortable silence as they both overlooked their menus.

“I think I'll have the coffee omelette,” Stanford said, after a moment.

“Don't ya think ya get enough coffee as it is?” Fiddleford said, picking up his cup of coffee and taking a sip.

Stanford looked Fiddleford in the eyes, then made a show of directing his attention to the coffee cup in Fiddleford's hand. He looked back up at Fiddleford, arms crossed.

Fiddleford took another sip of his coffee as if he hadn't noticed.

“For your information, Fiddleford, I've only had fifteen cups of coffee today.”

Fiddleford took another sip. “Ten here.”

“Oh, like that's so much better,” Stanford said, snorting.

“I wager it's about twenty percent healthier to drink ten cups than it is to drink fifteen plus a coffee omelette,” Fiddleford said.

“You made that percentage up, and you know it,” Stanford said.

“I made it up,” Fiddleford said, agreeably. 

Stanford didn't get a chance to reply when once again the waitress came by, ready to take their order. Fiddleford ordered the Everything Soup and a ham sandwich as well as a refill for his coffee, and Stanford ordered his coffee omelette as well as a cup of coffee. The waitress mentioned off-hand that the coffee omelette had a secret ingredient, and Fiddleford found it more than a little amusing to watch Stanford's expression contort into one of deep befuddlement and mild horror. 

After some light-hearted banter (although, it was mostly him just outright teasing Stanford), they both easily slipped into conversation after conversation as they waited for their food to arrive. It arrived just in time, too, because Stanford was thinking about complaining about the service. One of a number of things they had in common was that they were both quick eaters. Stanford didn't like to waste anymore time than necessary to eat (a fact which sometimes concerned Fiddleford since there had been more than a few instances where Stanford simply skipped eating altogether). As for himself, well, meal times back when he was living on the hog farm were a battlefield. If he didn't eat quickly, there was a good chance someone would take his food before he could even blink. Old habits died hard.

“You know, Fiddleford, even though, I'd rate this restaurant as the worst I've ever been to,” Stanford began.

Fiddleford gave a bit of a frown as he held up his cup of coffee to his lips. 

“I'm glad you convinced me to come out and dine with you.” Stanford offered him a smile.

Fiddleford was certain the warm feeling in his stomach wasn't just from the food he had eaten and the coffee that he was drinking. He set his cup of coffee down and smiled back at his friend.

“I'm glad ya came, too, Stanford.”

Stanford's smile only grew broader. “I think this dinner together was a great way to celebrate our future success! I propose a toast. To the project, to us, to making history, and to making a better world!” 

He raised his cup.

Fiddleford felt his stomach sink, and he kept his eyes glued on his own coffee cup. It was now or never. But the words weren't coming to him. They felt stuck in his throat. 

“Fiddleford? What's wrong?” Stanford asked, his voice low and concerned.

Fiddleford heard the cup getting set back down on the table. He ran a hand through his hair and cleared his throat. “I'm...”

He glanced at the napkin he had drawn on that was hidden behind the condiments. He grabbed it and slowly slid it over to Stanford.

“What's this?”

Fiddleford closed his eyes and breathed. “I'm havin' second thoughts.”

“Second thoughts? But we're so close to finishing the project,” Stanford said, sounding incredulous.

That was the hard part, right? Admitting it aloud? That was over. Now, he needed to explain himself. He opened his eyes to look at Stanford briefly, noting the man seemed confused.

“My final calculations have revealed deep flaws in our design – flaws that could have disastrous consequences. I've quintuple-checked everything that isn't an unknown variable, and by the way, there are too many unknown variables. We have no earthly idea where that portal actually leads, Stanford. Nor do we have any frame of reference for what might happen as a result of essentially punchin' a hole in the fabric of reality.” Fiddleford tried to keep his voice level, but it was reaching that higher pitch it got to whenever he was in distress.

Stanford looked around the diner a moment and leaned in close. “Shhh, shh. Keep your voice down. This project is supposed to be a secret, remember?”

Fiddleford nodded slowly and lowered his voice.

“The structural integrity of the portal is about as solid as we can possibly make it, but I ain't convinced that a strong enough gravitational anomaly won't tear the whole thing apart. The fuel for the portal itself is inherently unstable, and besides the fact that we're riskin' serious radiation sickness, we could have a potentially explosive situation on our hands. And I ain't meanin' a small explosion neither; I mean an explosion that could wipe out this entire town, county, and its surroundin' counties. The gravitational anomalies themselves also present a danger in -”

Stanford interrupted him. “Fiddleford, you're talking about worst-case scenarios here. Everything is going to be fine, I-”

Fiddleford interrupted him in turn. “No. No, I've done the math. The probability of failure outweighs the probability of success in nearly every case. These are LIKELY scenarios, Stanford.”

Stanford fell quiet a moment. “I'm not convinced-”

It was Fiddleford's turn to sound incredulous. “Are ya questionin' my math?”

“No, no,” Stanford said hurriedly. “But Fiddleford, you look tired. I noticed you looked tired when I came in here, and you've been stressed a lot lately. Maybe I've been pushing you too hard...”

“We're being reckless. We need to reconsider this whole plan, if not for our own safety than for the safety of this town. These people have no idea what we're buildin'. They have a right not to be put in harm's way,” Fiddleford said, managing a firm note despite the shakiness of his voice.

Stanford sighed, then he clenched his fists. “What if I told you that I know everything is going to turn out fine? You can trust me.”

“You can't know that. And numbers don't lie,” Fiddleford told him. Nonetheless, he looked at Stanford curiously. Why would he say that? What was his friend seeing that he wasn't seeing?

“I started this project. Do you really think I would continue work on it if I thought it was dangerous?”

Fiddleford's expression went flat. The look would no doubt be familiar to Stanford. It happened often enough when Stanford said something contradictory or foolish.

Stanford gave an exasperated sigh, rolling his eyes. “Fine. Do you really think I would continue work on it if I thought it was THAT dangerous? I wouldn't risk an entire town's safety like that. You know me. I'm not like that.”

Fiddleford fell silent for a moment, turning this thought over. He had known Stanford once. But now? Now, he wasn't sure. He felt a distance between them that hadn't been there before in their relationship. Idly, he plucked at a few strands of his hair. There was something else that bothered him. Something he had brought up before, but Stanford kept dismissing.

“There are things you're not tellin' me, Stanford,” Fiddleford told him.

Stanford fell silent this time.

“I know I've asked before. But I'm asking again because... because we're friends, and we should be able to trust each other. This project we're developing... it's more advanced than anything the human race is currently workin' on. We're developin' technology and usin' theorems and exploitin' discoveries in quantum physics that don't exist and shouldn't exist for another thousand to several thousand years. This is an unprecedented rate of development.”

Stanford's downcast look came up for a moment, and his eyes gleamed. Fiddleford once admired that look in his eyes, but now it concerned him.

“Isn't it thrilling?” he asked, a whisper of awe.

“It's impossible,” Fiddleford said, feeling himself starting to tremble due to his nerves. “It should be impossible, Stanford. Where did ya get the idea for the portal?”

Here, he managed to look at his friend, trying to search his eyes, hoping for answers at long last. Stanford remained quiet, his expression hesitant. Fiddleford felt that all too familiar sinking sensation in his stomach again. He knew Stanford wasn't going to tell him. He knew it. Stanford didn't trust him. It was as simple as that. What's worse was that Fiddleford was sure Stanford had gotten himself involved into some kind of supernatural strangeness. He didn't know if the man had been visited by aliens or what, but whatever it was that had given him the idea for the portal, he couldn't be sure it had their best interests at heart. Not when all of his calculations told him otherwise.

Fiddleford gave a heavy sigh and reached into his jacket for the thesis paper. This was his last ditch effort to convince Stanford not to go through with the test. He held the paper in his trembling hands, and he tried to will them to stop shaking to no avail. His shoulders shook along with them, and he had to adjust his spectacles to prevent them from sliding down the bridge of his nose.

Stanford's jaw had dropped open, and he stared at the paper, wide-eyed. Fiddleford hurried to explain.

“F-for the last three days,” Fiddleford said, swallowing hard, “I've been workin', without breaks, to write this paper for ya. It's a comprehensive chronicle of all your greatest discoveries.”

Stanford just continued staring, silent. Fiddleford couldn't stop now. This was important. This was his last attempt to try and convince his friend to quit the project.

“Publish this,” he said, placing it on the counter. “This is your research. I merely went through the trouble of catalogin' it for ya. There are enough discoveries here to make ya a multimillionaire. With this, ya will have everything ya ever wanted, and ya won't need to go through with this risky test. Forget about the portal and the Grand Unified Theory of Weirdness! Publish this, get your life back, and move on!”

Fiddleford couldn't keep the pleading note of desperation out of his voice, especially as Stanford's brow started to furrow, and his mouth became a hard line. Stern. He seemed to be trembling also, and his six-fingered fists were clenched so tight that Fiddleford could see his knuckles turning white. The atmosphere in the room felt as if it had dropped a few degrees. 

Fiddleford put both of his hands into his hair and stared at Stanford with a look of wild desperation and concern. He had seen Stanford shut down like this before. He remembered the first time Stanford had spoken to him about his twin brother. He had looked like this, too. Angry. Cold.

“Check, please!” Stanford called. His eyes were not on the thesis paper Fiddleford had written but on Fiddleford himself. Hurt. That's what could be seen there. Hurt... and something else. Something Fiddleford hadn't seen directed at him since they had become friends. Suspicion?

“Stanford-”

Stanford looked away from him. His voice sounded rougher than usual and harsh. “Right now would be good!”

The waitress with the cat earrings hurried over, giving Stanford something of a disapproving frown before presenting Fiddleford and Stanford with their bills. She went away, grumbling something under her breath about rudeness.

Fiddleford sucked in a breath. He wasn't going to cry. Not here. Not right now.

“S-stanford, please.”

Stanford looked back at Fiddleford, and for a moment, the expression in his face softened. It almost gave Fiddleford hope. Only for his hope to be dashed again when Stanford looked away from him once more to fumble with his wallet to present the exact amount of change needed for the bill. Then, he stood, fists clenched at his side. “We will do the test tomorrow night at eight 'o clock sharp.”

All Fiddleford could feel was dread. Dread threatening to consume him from the inside out. Dread for what the future would hold. 

And then, Stanford said something that shocked him to his core.

“Be there or get left behind. The choice is yours.”

Fiddleford didn't see Stanford leave; he only heard the diner's door slam and felt the eyes of the diner's other patrons on him. Get left behind? What was he saying? Did the project mean that much more to him than... than their friendship? He felt sick. He stared down at the napkin with the diagram on it.

_Probability of Failure._

It mocked him. Mocked his own failure in trying to convince Stanford to quit the portal. He didn't know what to do now. Numbers didn't lie. If they went through with the test or even if Stanford went through with the test alone, it would end in disaster. 

But Stanford had said to trust him. Trust him. How could he trust him when he wouldn't tell him everything? How could he trust him when their friendship was being threatened over work on a project? He had trusted Stanford once, had dropped everything to come here to help him, and this was it. This was the result?

But they were friends, weren't they? And... and he had trusted Stanford once. Couldn't he find it in him to trust him again? The project meant so much to Stanford. They were both working so hard. If he could just forget this ever happened...

Fiddleford thought of the memory-erasing gun. He could forget. No question. But... He glanced at the napkin again.

_Probability of Failure._

Numbers didn't lie. He could trust his friend and hope for the best, or he could take matters into his own hands. For their own safety. For the safety of the town. Maybe even the safety of the world. Fiddleford stared at the napkin a moment more, then he grabbed it and crumpled it up in his hand. He came to a decision right then and there.

Fiddleford emptied out his wallet to cover his own bill. He didn't bother trying to calculate the appropriate tip. If he paid the waitress more than he should have, well... she seemed like a nice lady and probably deserved the extra money, anyway. He kept his head bowed to avoid meeting anyone's gaze as he hurried out the diner.

Tomorrow, everything would be different. Tomorrow, everything would be... better.


End file.
